


Fervor

by chaoticlivi



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 21:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13690572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Summary: Soul weaves something special into a public performance.





	Fervor

High heels plunk, plunk, plunk on the wooden floor in the hall outside his dressing room. Soul’s pretty sure he knows who it is - he can recognize those footfalls from before they left the apartment this evening - but he still waits for the knock before he opens the door. During the wait, the old-fashioned dark-red interior of the room (this includes the furniture, the drapes, even the wall; someone was looking to set a mood in here) seems to beat with excitement.

The door rushes open to Maka’s smile. She’s breathy, as though she’s been sprinting, and the maroon of her dress accents her flushed cheeks. “I love your music,” she blurts.

Most people don’t think about that compliment the way he does. Most people separate the art from the artist. But Soul’s music is just himself, the best way he can think of to exist at all, something she knows because he’s told her. If Maka loves his music so much, maybe loving the rest of him - the peripheral bits - is no big deal at all. With all they’ve been through and all her praise for his music, he _must_ be in her heart somewhere, and she’s got so much of his; tonight, on that stage, he had wanted to reach for her, see if she’d connect with him in new ways.

It seems there’s always some new way for them to connect.

"Thanks," he says, but it echoes as self-aggrandizing. “Check out the dressing room they gave me,” Soul adds, gesturing inside, trying not to stew in his own weirdness. Maka steps through the threshold. That dress - _it matches the room_ , dark reds everywhere to bring out her oasis green eyes. Even he’s part of the scheme, a tie intended to match his irises red against his black shirt. A black tuxedo jacket and red vest drape on the chair where he tossed them a minute ago.

“I think I heard something in there. In your music,” she continues, hands tucked neatly behind her. Maka squares her shoulders and bounces a little on her feet, balancing from heels to toes and back.

Perhaps she made the connection. “You, uh,” Soul drops to the loveseat, landing with less finesse than he had hoped, and spreads his arms out along the back so he won’t go scratching his cheek out of nerves again, because _that’s_ a giveaway. “What’d you hear?”

Maka shakes her head, hair swaying. “I don’t know, Soul. I definitely heard something but I don’t know how to describe what it was.”

There’s no doubt she heard the song he’d woven in there just for her.

“There might have been something different,” he says, caution in the pit of his stomach. “It’s, uh, something I was trying for the first time.”

“I got a feeling from it,” Maka says, joining him where he sits. Her thigh just brushes his. “Like there was something aimed at me.”

“Well, I dunno if _aimed_ is quite what I wanted to get across, but...yeah, I put a little something that I hoped would stand out to you.”

She sidles up really, really close, hand warm on his shoulder. Hand hot on his shoulder. Screw this long-sleeved shirt, everything is hot. “How can you do that?” she asks, eyes wide.

“I-- ah,” how does he explain without sounding like a complete cheeseball? “I know the sound of your soul pretty well, so I can sort of...write a song that feels to you like a resonance. Even if we’re not, technically, resonating.”

“That’s so cool,” Maka whispers, a grin breaking out on her face like the sun through the clouds.

Soul shrugs, the anxiety starting to fragment into something more bubbly, less threatening. “Surprise! Happy Valentine’s day, I guess. I’m glad you caught it in there.” He offers his best toothy grin.

“What a good gift,” Maka says. She puts her arms around his neck in a hug. Gentle though it is, Soul barely hears through the pounding of his heart: “I got you something, too, but it’s...it’s not that creative. Just sweets and CDs.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says. While they get each other little tokens of affection every year, they’re not - well. They _haven’t_ been officially dating, so he doesn’t make the assumption that it’s going to happen every time. He puts his hands on her back for a light squeeze in return, unsure where her boundaries are yet.

“You know, you had a lot of faith in me being able to tell that song was special.” Maka chuckles. Her voice rumbles and her breath feathers the tip of his ear, sending thrills all up and down his spine. He moves his hands up, so one is on her head, just barely running through her hair - he’s on the lookout for clues that she doesn’t like it, but she settles into him instead. Contented, he hums.

“Yeah, well. You don’t know music, but you know me.”

Maka pulls back to study his face. “Really? You’re that sure of me?”

Soul grins. “Yeah, duh. Also, I’m bad with words.”

“That’s not an excuse not to use them,” Maka scolds, but she’s beaming anyway. If she’s so giddy now, maybe it’s not such a big risk to say what he means out loud.

Hmm. He’ll ease into it.

“I didn’t want to put you - us - on the spot, but I also… wanted you to hear me play it in front of everyone,” he says. The next words hang heavy on his tongue, and they taste like the ones he read once when he snuck a peek at a novel Maka had left wedged between the couch cushions. “When you listened to me playing, could you feel what I was trying to say? How I feel about you?”

Maka hesitates, looks like she’s about to say something. Then, she leans in - and all at once, she’s a blur of heat and touch, rushing in to show Soul what his song meant to her. Her lips are soft, her kiss intense.

“Is that what you meant?” she asks, after a long-but-not-long-enough moment.

“It’s-- yes,” he begins to nod, ending by leaning his forehead against hers so he can catch his breath. “That’s, ah, a pretty good description, yeah.”

“I think what I heard when you played was,” Maka begins, pausing to lick her lips, “love?”

That’s it. She heard it in his language - she _accepted_ it in his language. Now it’s time for her to hear it in plain, obvious words.

“Yes, Maka, you nerd. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says, pressing her nose to his, green eyes hooded with mischief. “Sorry if I kissed you too suddenly. But it felt right,” she adds, a spark peeking through a sheepish squint.

“So straightforward.” Soul kisses her nose, her cheeks, her lips, all chastely, before assuring her, “I like it. Always have.” He kisses her again, _not_ so chaste. She meets him in the middle, the taste of a strong Death City wine and chocolate dessert still on her from the concert’s intermission. At his suggestive invitation - a tug on her embrace, a whispered “wanna?” that makes her smirk - Maka shuffles onto him, her body’s curve slipping over his thighs like a glove.

Sweet, sweet Death, the pressure of her body on his lap. His hips rise, magnetized to her; oh, she _must_ be able to feel his excitement physically. They experience a mutual moment of hesitation as she pushes the bangs out of his eyes and asks, “Okay?”

“If you are,” he whispers, chest so full of feelings that he can barely squeeze the words out. She leans in for a full, deep kiss, pulling him close, rolling her hips into his.

The hot weight of Maka on him in all her fervor is _divine_. Sighs - both his and hers, he’s pleased to note - slide out from between their kisses.


End file.
